


A Christmas Gambold

by 221b_hound



Series: Star-crossed [7]
Category: Richard III - Shakespeare, Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Decorations, Christmas Jumpers, Christmas Smut, Light Bondage, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Power Bottom John, Shakespearean style language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't fond of Christmas. John has ways of making him like it.</p><p>Richard never liked Christmas much, and Khan hasn't heard of it. But in their glade, they are developing a little festive ritual of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Gambold

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist a little Christmas porn with these beautiful boys - my resurrected homicidal dream boyfriends! I love them so! New stories for them in the new year, but for now, lots of yuletide sex with their beloved.
> 
> The title comes from lines in The Taming of the Shrew:  
> Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a comonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?

Sherlock Holmes had little truck with Christmas. Crime, when it was committed at all in this cold and indoors time of year, was primarily related to festive stress, relationships already at breaking point fracturing under the strain of the expectations, as well as the machinations of greed and profiteering. Murders were of the tediously commonplace variety and gave Sherlock no scope at all. Even Anderson had no trouble divining the guilty parties.

Furthermore, Sherlock’s injured leg ached in the cold and even with his cane, it was treacherous to walk on the wet and slippery streets. Perforce, he had to remain indoors and sulk.

John Watson had more time for the season, though his enjoyment came from being enamoured of roaring fires, the warmth of mulled wine, and making things cheery with tinsel, flashing lights and Christmas jumpers that were ridiculous and reminded him of a happy childhood.

He dealt with Sherlock’s sulks over the season by the simple expedient of locking the doors to the flat and whispering filthy nothings to his darling as his darling perched in his chair like a disapproving, slender Grinch.

John Watson whispered endearments and suggestions. He described delicate acts of delectable lust, and how his tongue might feel, or how Sherlock’s might, against this or that soft and secret portion of skin. He licked the shell of Sherlock’s ear and his own lips, and slid his hands over Sherlock’s chest and thighs, bracketing and teasing but never satisfying the growing ache between them as Sherlock’s knees fell open against his own volition.

John kissed the back of his love’s neck and in his low voice breathed against the pale skin, “Oh love, oh my love, do you know what mistletoe is for? And do you know where I am wearing it?”

“Do you know where I would like to kiss you? On the soft, soft skin of your belly, and I want to lick and suck your navel. I want to map you with my tongue and mouth so that I could identify you in the dark with my hands tied. I love how your body changes when I touch it. Did you know that the way your nipples harden when I lick them is almost the best sensation in the world?”

Sherlock clung to the pretence of his grumpiness, despite his quickening breath and hardening prick, and John only smiled against Sherlock’s skin because he knew Sherlock liked to be wooed. He knelt before his Sherlock’s chair and bent to kiss and nibble those long feet and the curling toes as Sherlock’s crouch softened and spread, until he became an almost open gift upon the chair.

John’s blue eyes glowed up at him from between his legs and John rubbed his cheeks against thighs clad in dark denim. “I want to mark you. When you walk, you’ll know I’ve sucked bruises into your thighs but no-one else will see. I want to hold your legs wide, my beautiful darling, and lick every lovely bit of skin I see, and bury my nose between your legs and breathe deep. You smell wonderful when you want me. You smell fantastic, and taste fantastic, and I want you. I want you.”

Sherlock’s eyes were bright and glazed and when John unfastened Sherlock's jeans and tugged, Sherlock only lifted his hips so that John could remove those and his boxers more easily. John kissed and licked and nibbled, head busy between those pale thighs, while Sherlock threw his head back and moaned and decided Christmas wasn’t so bad after all. Even with his legs in the air, a most undignified pose, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as though he would fall off if he let go.

In due course he did indeed slither to the floor, prick hard and erect as a tree, rising all cherry red and festive from a forest of dark curls. Sherlock went on a tactile voyage of exploration and thence discovered where John had tied a length of fake mistletoe, and how it was in that location an effective orgasm-denier for a time. 

And so they proceeded with moans and lusty laughter, and from time to time a near squeak of fancies tickled almost to climax, ending with John’s hands tied together behind his back by the knitted arms of his holly-hued Christmas jumper, as he rode Sherlock’s cock with rolling hips and spread thighs, his faux-mistletoe-wrapped prick and balls upthrust and bobbing and leaking in wanton, merry abandon. John gasped many imprecations of _Oh God, oh Christ, Sherlock, fuck, fuck me, god, fantastic, that’s, right there, oh fuck, god, Sherlock, harder, fuck yes_ , while Sherlock clung to John’s hips, in no way fooled as to who was in charge here (because despite who was tied at wrist and cock, it certainly wasn’t Sherlock) and responded with _John John John harder, oh god, John please please pleasepleasepleaseJohnJohnJohnJohn_ until Sherlock came, hips rocking, breath torn raggedly from his happily panting lungs.

And then John wriggled right up over Sherlock’s chest (hands still tied, smearing come all over Sherlock’s belly and chest, which Sherlock liked very much) and with the astonishing strength still in his knees and thighs, positioned his bound self so that Sherlock could first pull the mistletoe bow undone with his teeth, then raise his hands to fondle John’s arse and open his lush lips and hot mouth to suck John’s cock with both enthusiasm and skill for the groaning fifty two seconds it took for John to come, too.

John retained enough energy to manoeuvre onto the rug, to sprawl alongside his long-limbed sweetheart, and twisted his hands out of the woollen manacles. Wrapped together on the hearthrug, in front of the warm embers of their fire, Sherlock conceded that John at least made Christmas much more interesting than it used to be.

*  
Then lo, in a soft green glade, Khan sat in his black trews, shirt open to the waist, his back against the bark of a tree, and laughed a soft laugh.

His love did not seem to mind the merriment, though 'twas in part at his expense. For Richard sat astride his Khan’s lap, the ties of his own trews loosened for comfort, his chest bare, as he took the tiny flowers and berries he had placed on Khan’s stomach and placed them carefully in Khan’s straight, dark hair with his good hand.

“What is the reason you decorate me with this flora with such devotion?” Khan asked.

“Tis the season,” said Richard, as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world, “And though in the past I was wont to see such time as a mirthless tedium, yet now I see merit in it.”

“What season is it you speak of?”

“Why, 'tis Christmas time,” said Richard, “When the winter is hard upon us and some say a god did give his life as a sacrifice to save all others.”

“What god is this?”

“Tis of no matter,” said Richard, “I believe not in him. Thou art my only god, my Khan.”

Khan smiled and bent towards his Richard, to soft kiss his lips. Richard paused in his ministrations to enjoy his Khan’s mouth – lips and tongue, and lightly scraping teeth. Then his kissed the end of Khan’s nose and resumed the decoration of his hair.

“'Twas a tradition with my people,” continued Richard, “That in our winters near the solstice, we would decorate our homes and halls with bay and laurel, ivy and holly, and all things green against the bleakness of the frost. We would raise a toast and drink by a yule log fire and wish each other merry Christmas, and thence the foolish games would begin. Prattling things. I had no skill for them, except as the hapless punchline of the jokes of the Lord of Misrule, and nor could I complain but that I should be seen as not of the spirit of the season. Thus spite was dressed as mirth. Nor yet were singing and dancing games of which I could partake, excepting as the sporting spite of that cruel merriment.” Richard paused to rein in his discontent. He sighed and petted Khan’s hair and resumed the careful placement of flower, leaf and berry.

“'Tis of no matter. The past is dust, and you are here, and it is my fancy that you would be fetching dressed in holly and all things green, for art though not my own home and hall? Thy noble brow is the most beloved dome of the dwelling wherein my heart and soul resides. If I should be thankful for any sacrifice that hath given me life, I am thankful for thee.” Richard kissed Khan’s brow, then rested his own forehead against it.

“Though art a gift to me,” he said softly, “Though art my joy and promise of hope. Thou art all.” He sat back and smiled at his handiwork. “And thou art a most fine and festive Christmas bower, oh light of my heart.”

Khan laughed again, and lifted a hand to feel the plants woven into the dark strands of his hair.

“Then likewise must I decorate you,” he said, and immediately looked for suitable items from those remaining on his own stomach. With nimble fingers, he wove red berries and sprigs of green into Richard’s hair and indeed his beard. Richard, eyes closed, smiled, repressing his own laughter.

“You are a veritable sprite of this time you call… Christmas, is it? It’s not a tradition of my people, but I will say, I like this part of it. I decorate you, my heart’s own home, with all things green and beautiful.” Khan paused and this time leaned towards his Richard in order to kiss his chest. He lifted Richard’s unmoving arm and placed it in his lap, between them. “And while our glade is sunny and warm always, and our darkest, coldest days are behind us, yet more may come. So be green and merry, my Richard, be always springtime for me, the promise of new things to come. You are my garden as well as my home. You are grain and flower to me; nourishment and joy.”

Richard opened his eyes again, the blue of them shining and dark with emotion, and only Khan could see how his love, festooned in flowers and berries and green, looked like a green god, like the Green Man of myth, the harbinger of rebirth.

“Would you teach me to dance?” Khan asked him, “For I know not how. We did not dance, my siblings and I. We had not the time for such purposeless joy.”

“I dance ill,” Richard warned him, “For my leg is stiff and my body graceless.”

“No, no,” Khan countered, kissing Richard’s shoulders, “Your grace is beyond measure. When your body is moving with mine here under the trees and by our river, when our limbs entwine and you move your hips with mine, you are a sonnet. Here, rise up.” 

Richard rose a little on his knees and Khan hooked his fingers into the waist of Richard’s trews and pulled them down to his thighs, leaving him sitting bare-behinded, on Khan's legs.

“And now me,” whispered Khan, and shoved at his trews to reveal his prick, growing flushed and hard and hot between them. “And see how you are beautiful to me.”

Khan wrapped his strong arms around his love and lowered Richard onto his back. He pulled Richard's trousers free, then shoved his own away, and was soon nestled between his love’s thighs. With his large, steady hands, he lifted Richard’s legs high, so that Richard could wrap them tight around Khan's ribs, and they kissed, lush and deep, and began to move together.

In this dream landscape, Khan pushed soft-hard, smooth-and-tight, into his Richard’s dream-ready body and they clung together, flowers in their hair, flowers and berries crushed between the skin of their bellies, releasing sweet fragrance, the juice of it slicking Richard’s prick against Khan’s belly, inciting heat and delight.

They kissed hard, bit playfully and sucked at tongue, lip, throat and cheek as Kahn rocked his hips and Richard flexed to meet him until cries were wrung from them: Khan with his face nestled in Richard’s bearded neck, Richard with his head tilted back, the countenance that had been so reviled and so frightful to his enemies now wreathed in flowers and rapture.

“Truly,” Khan murmured after, kissing and kissing and kissing Richard’s face, “You are all of my traditions now, Richard. All of my rituals and rites are held in you.”

Richard, sated and happy, was laughing now. “I look forward, my Khan, to introducing you to the rites of spring in May, wherein the Maypole is wrapped in ribbon.”

Khan nipped Richard’s shoulder, which only made him laugh the harder. “And let there be more pagan rites,” said Richard, giggling, “For a bacchanal for you and I will surely be a wonder.”

Khan pinched Richard’s nipples and then, as a wicked punishment, slid two fingers inside his love to make him groan and arch again. “Pray do not stop,” Richard gasped, “But have me again. The feel of you inside me, any part of you, is my perfectest fulfilment, for then thy body joins thy heart and soul in me.”

So Khan willingly obliged and with his clever fingers brought his Richard to second climax. Thereafter, he carried his prince to the river – and his prince put up only the most beggarly protest, so that they were both washed and clean and cool again.

And then they stood naked on the banks by the river, arms around each other, and swayed to the sound of the breeze through treetop leaves, dancing for no purpose in their glade, except for joy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Christmas Gambold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519164) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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